


To Be A Hero

by Vidria



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: BAMF Loki, BAMF Tony, Civil War (Marvel), Everything Hurts, Feels, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, I Don't Even Know, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Loki Does What He Wants, Loki Is Not Helping, Loneliness, M/M, Mood Swings, Odin's A+ Parenting, Prologue in First person, Sassy FRIDAY, Shit is going down now, Slow Build, The Author Regrets Nothing, Tony Stark Does What He Wants, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Villain Tony Stark, my poor baby, questionable life choices
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-04
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-08-19 13:09:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8209690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vidria/pseuds/Vidria
Summary: They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions. For some people that rings truer than for others. For me, it is a reality written in the marrow of my bones.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So. Lets talk Civil War. Great movie, amazing movie, but I am so beyond pissed it's not even funny. And now I have all these feelings I don't know what to do with. Ergo writing something for my poor baby Tony. Also Loki. There will hopefully be close to zero character bashing (yes Steve I'm looking at you). The Author will try. The Author promises nothing. 
> 
> Also I don't have a Beta so any constructive criticism is appreciated.

What does it mean to be a hero?

 

Is it measured by your actions?

 

Or perhaps your intentions? Good will? Ability to save, ability to forgive?

 

If you see yourself as a hero, but other people see you as a villain, are you a hero or a villain? How can you tell?

 

* * *

 

 

They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions. For some people that rings truer than for others. For me, it is a reality written in the marrow of my bones.

I always knew I was not perfect. I was never the fastest or the strongest and my heart was always put in question. There was always one thing that I excelled at though – I was always the smartest and I knew it. Didn’t do me much good in the end, that big brain of mine.

Perhaps the people who shouted that Tony Stark doesn’t have a heart were right, maybe the people who labeled me a monster weren’t far from the truth. After all, I was already a villain once before. Merchant of death has a certain charm doesn’t it?

Unfortunately, after Afghanistan and the Ten rings I couldn’t ignore the horror my weapons brought into the world anymore. In hindsight I realize that I was selfish even in this. I never cared about it until it happened to _me_. The first Iron man suit was not created as a means of protection either but rather as a means of revenge. If it protected anything, it protected me and me only.

When I announced I was Iron man, when I told the world that I would protect it to the best of my ability, I thought I could handle anything thrown my way. I was still so very arrogant, so very naïve. I thought myself so much better; I mean how could I not? With a new shiny suit of armor I was unstoppable, untouchable – until I found myself dying because of my own creation and Ivan Vanko showed me that even a god can bleed. Then it was revenge again – and I won, of course I did, I’m Tony Stark. I haven’t expected the guilt or the nightmares, but whatever. I was a hero, I could handle it.

Except, was I a hero? Shield wouldn’t recruit me for their little boy band. Maybe they knew better than I did, what makes a real hero. In the end they didn’t have much choice; when Loki attacked anyone and anything was a go. Also, is it just me or is Loki somehow really enticing as a villain? Any other villain to date was boring and easy to hate but there was just _something_ about that guy, you know? It was refreshing. Well, anyway-

I thought after saving the world from an actual alien invasion I would feel like a million bucks.

 

Nope.

 

I mean, I knew I won’t escape the nightmares or the guilt but the panic attacks? The paranoia? That was something that took me by surprise. Perhaps it shouldn’t have. I realize now just how much that fear drove me; creating suit after suit after suit, as if that will keep everything at bay. There would never be enough suits to protect me from the monsters inside my skull. Still, not like those suits helped much. Happy was hurt, Pepper was hurt, so many other people were hurt (killed). I wasn’t fast enough, wasn’t good enough. The guilt and fear and paranoia doubled, tripled, because these were people I knew, my friends, my family. I would try to be better, faster. I needed to anticipate the threats to my precious people. I could not let them get hurt again.

So I made Ultron.

Ultron was the solution; it was the future – a fear free future, Ultron was-

 

A mistake.

 

Jesus Christ, can’t I do anything right? So many victims, so much collateral damage, JARVIS - just because _Tony fucking Stark_ thought himself better and smarter than others. Never mind that they warned me. From Bruce to Rogers, everyone knew this was not a good idea (How did they know anyway? Do real heroes come equipped with radars for stuff like that or something?).

It was soon after that I realized I was dangerous. I was a danger to the world and I needed to be controlled. Sokovia Accords was what I, what we, needed. The Avengers were a force that was to be used sparingly, like the time of Loki’s invasion and Hydra’s tyranny, not for everyday brawls. We cause too much damage for that.

This time I knew I was on the right path. I mean, I had basically the whole world supporting that decision. Of course I knew giving that kind of power to the government wasn’t the best idea, but we would amend the Accords later, we just needed to bear with the situation for a while longer until my lawyers made something more acceptable.

But of course, _of course_ , Steve fucking Rogers had to fuck it all up. It was all Bucky, Bucky, Bucky ( _He’s my friend, Tony!_ ) and what am I, chopped liver?

The god damn idiot, couldn’t he see I was right? I was _right!_

 

I was…wrong.

 

And Rhodey paid the price. It was my fault, everything was my fault. First JARVIS, then Pepper, now Rhodes. Thanks to my genius I lost them all. I lost my family, but perhaps it wasn’t too late for my friends. I would fix at least this. For once in my pathetic life I would make this right, I would-

 

Kill Barnes.

 

Brainwashed or no, this killer, this monster took away my mom. I didn’t give a shit about Howard, but mom? She deserved better. Fuck friendship, if nothing else I will have revenge.

 

In the end I couldn’t even have that. My heroic life was a failure after failure after failure, each bigger than the last. The more I tried to be a hero the worse the consequence.

 

As I sit here, looking at the phone old buddy Steve so generously sent me, reviewing my lonely messed up life, I realize something. It’s so obvious I have to smile.

 

I remember the stories my mom used to read to me.

The heroes always won and the villains always lost.

The heroes always did the right thing and the villains were always ruined, their plans foiled.

 

Sitting here, after all these years I finally see.

 

* * *

 

 

 

The universe didn’t want Tony Stark to be a _hero_.

 

No.

 

Iron man was always meant to be a _villain_.


	2. The Pen - Mightier than a Sword

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello you lovely people. I'm sory it took so long for me to update, but college life is absolutely brutal at the moment. I suspect this irregular updating schedule will have to be the norm for this fic as I just don't have the time to fully concentrate on this. Still, hope you enjoy.

The golden library is an old, dusty place that doesn’t receive many visitors, if any at all. Many Aesir consider the chambers for storing scripts and tomes unnecessary. After all, what use are books to the mighty warriors? Some wiser people of the realm eternal understood the necessity of keeping and storing knowledge, even if they rarely made use of it. Even the king himself didn’t know half of the books kept there.

After his failed invasion in New York, after Malekith’s attack, Loki finally understood that it was not his incompetence that ruined him, but his lack of information. He had not known enough about the scepter he wielded, he had not known enough about his enslaved humans and to what extent they could still defy him, he had not known enough about his enemies.

_“Well, performance issues, it's not uncommon. One out of five...”_

He still wondered about that. How _had_ Stark defied the scepter’s power? In his better moments Loki could admit, if only to himself, that the mortal had impressed him. He was quite an interesting specimen that one. Perhaps Loki will pay him a visit sometime in the future - he didn’t much appreciate being made fun of.

Standing above Odin, who has been forced into Odinsleep by his hand, Loki made a promise to read every book from cover to cover in that library. He made a promise to never be caught unawares again. Only after will he let the spell keeping the Allfather asleep loose. He would rule Asgard just long enough to take everything this city had to offer, before leaving the wretched place.

He reinforced the spells around the chamber and set out to the throne room as was customary for the king. Funny how the guards he passed looked at him with reverence rather than disgust when he wasn’t wearing his own skin.

 

                                  Despicable worms.

 

No matter, he will be rid of them soon enough. He kept his face impassive and relished the thought of their flabbergasted faces when they realize his deceit, but by then it will be far too late of course. They had always underestimated him. Not a single man or woman in this realm thought of him as a threat.

That’s fine, Loki will show them fear. One day they will see him and _tremble_.

Shying away from the souring thoughts plaguing him mind, he entered the throne room. He noticed that some people were already there, waiting for the King to make his appearance - some generals, some advisers, boring elders that had nothing better to do with their time. Loki was already sick of them. He regally seated himself upon the throne and awaited their customary greetings.

“My king,” they chorused while kneeling, their heads bowed politely. Loki let the moment stretch, enjoying this small show of submission a bit more than he perhaps should. With an elegant hand gesture he motioned his subjects to rise and regarded them with slight curiosity.

“Tell me, what has brought you here today?”

His inquiry was answered with lowering chins and fast side glances. The obvious conclusion was that he probably won’t like what they had to say. Really, they were behaving like small children who had broken mother’s vase. He almost expected for someone to whisper: “you do it!” It would have been funny, if the trickster had time for such nonsense.

How ridiculous. Grown men - some of them warriors – cowered before him like rats. Is this the fabled might of Asgard?

“Well?” He growled and was immediately delighted when a few in the crowd flinched.

Finally, a general cleared his throat and stepped forward. “My king, we have gathered here because we worry for Asgard. We feel that after the attack on our city it is necessary to strengthen our defenses and connect more firmly with the people of our land. As of yet no such actions were taken and the people live in fear. We believe something must be done.”

Loki could feel the rage boiling under the surface. They have the nerve to question his abilities as a leader. Even now, even in the Allfather’s appearance they still doubt him. Has he not ruled the people with firm but gentle hand? Even after all this he was still not good enough for the _precious_ Asgard and her spoiled citizens.

“Do you doubt me general?” He asked with a deceptively quiet voice and the man instantly recoiled.

“No, not at all my king! Please, don’t misunderstand. It’s just, since Malekith’s attack you have been rarely seen and all of Asgard worries for you, that is all.”

Really, first they worry for Asgard, now they worry for him? Loki supposed that’s the kind of blabber you get when you let a muscle do the brain’s work. Well, he should have expected this need for assurance and guidance since he was pretending to be the most important person in the realm. It didn’t make it any less tiring. He didn’t have to fake a weary sigh when he answered.

“General, my wife died as did my youngest son, whom I have loved even in his darkest hours and atop it all, Thor has decided to forego the throne entirely and wishes to live on Midgard. I will admit I am weary. But tell me, have I not led Asgard right? Have I not taken care of its people? You insult me with your worry general, for I have always put my people before myself.” The men paled and shook their heads at the end of his speech. A nondescript elderly that Loki could not remember the name of stuttered: “we mean no offence my king. Truly, we understand your pain and loss. Perhaps we were too rush in our decision to confront you with this. Forgive us.”

Loki suppressed a snort. “Do you? Do you understand my pain? I would advise you to hold your tongue, for it would seem it constantly runs away from you. That said, I also understand your concern. Have no fear; I shall rule Asgard as I always had. As for the attack, we will let people mourn their dead, give them some time to forget. People of the realm eternal are not so weak to succumb to anarchy because of this. We all need some respite after all that happened. After, we shall talk of defenses.”

The men, thankful and placated, nodded: “of course Allfather.”

Loki stood from the golden throne and inclined his head: “If that is all?”

When they nodded the second time Loki departed. Norns save him from nosy imbeciles. They worry? Pah. They don’t know the meaning of the word.

As soon as he was out of sight, Loki turned invisible and practically ran through the golden corridors. _Grace? Who needs that when there’s no one to impress._

He came to a stop in front of large wooden doors and carefully pulled the door knob to make as little noise as possible. The inside of the library was bathed in twilight as the large curtains covered most of the window’s surface. Loki didn’t mind at all. He headed to the furthest east wing and scanned the bookcases. One book in particular caught his interest. It was small and unobtrusive with worn out edges, so it seemed a bit strange that it would cause him to feel such visceral curiosity. He ran his fingers lightly across the back and simultaneously checked for curses and harmful magic. Fortunately, he found none and saw no reason to delay snatching it from the shelf. He opened it and scanned random pages. The language and certain phrases suggested the book was old – older perhaps than even Odin himself.

Strangely enough, the book talked about Norns; three sisters who had more power over destiny than any other being in the universe. Dwelling beneath Yggdrasil, carving runes and changing the tides of destiny to their whims. Loki’s eyes stopped on a particular paragraph and he carefully began reading.

_“All names have a certain sway in power – some more than most. Not many wish to attract the gazes of powerful beings of the Great Tree, so we began calling them the Norns, but a long time ago they were known by other names: Urd-What Once Was, Verdandi-What Is Coming into Being and Skuld-What Shall Be. These are the beings that shape our world, ‘tis true, but one should not be ignorant to the fact that the destiny woven or carved by the Norns is not final or unalterable. Having been once written, the words carved by the Norns can also be rewritten._

_All beings that are subject to what we call destiny have some – if small – degree of power over their own destiny and the destiny of others around them. Almost everyone uses this power passively. Some individuals however take this process into their own hands and shape destiny more actively and more potently. Those individuals are always practitioners of fjölkyngi – magic. The stronger the wielder of magic is, the more he or she will be able to shape his own paths of destiny. No individual will ever fully escape the claws of the Norns, but no individual is fully commanded by them either._

_It is in a way a spectrum of the universe; complete subjugation on one side and complete freedom on the other. All beings are somewhere in between those two extremes, but only they can assure which end of the spectrum they will fall into in life. For a person wielding magic to the point of changing destiny one must first look into themselves and know their inner workings. Only then will their magic have true potency.”_

Loki blinked. That was a concept he had never truly thought about. Did this mean he had the power to do what he wanted without anyone interrupting his plans? But then why had his plans been foiled? The last line suggested he must know himself fully in order to shape destiny. Does that mean he does not know himself? Except he does, Loki knows who he is, he is sure of that.

It hits him then; he knows himself as he knew himself before the revelation of his true origin. He has spat in Thor’s face the truth of his skin, but he has never really accepted it himself. Does he not hide behind glamour still? After all this time he still pushes away the thought of his true nature. Perhaps it would be wise to stop running from the truth, especially if it hinders his magic. Perhaps if he-

Another revelation uncovers itself in front of his eyes.

 

Of course.

 

Odin, that blasted old fool. Loki understood now, why he had preached so strongly against magic while still using it himself. It would just not do to have citizens of Asgard contradicting his will. No, he wanted to have all the power for himself and for him to rule unconditionally, everyone else must be ignorant and as meek as any sheep. It is obvious now, why Loki has been the only one that could ever succeed in countering the old king. Thor’s coronation was ruined because of him in spite of Odin’s plans, he learned about being a Jotun even if the Allfather never intended for him to find out. And now Loki will strive to achieve even greater heights by refining and bettering his magic core.

The force of the clarity the revelation brought with it had him stumbling into a nearby chair.

He took a deep breath and let his eyes flutter shut.

 

He had some thinking to do.

 

* * *

 

 

The cold water feels good sliding down his heated back. Just standing under the spray makes him feel cleaner. He feels a strange calm – relaxed but focused. Water is often used in baptism isn’t it? Then it’s appropriate that his road starts here.

After Afghanistan he has eaten a burger, drank some coffee and then took a shower – the phoenix rose.

This time, funnily enough, he took a shower first. At this moment in his life, it feels appropriate to honor the symbolism and so, for the sake of it he will drink some coffee next and order a nice juicy burger later, just because he could. A tickling sensation warmed his stomach – this pointless, petty ritual felt a lot like spitting in someone’s face.

 

Childish? Yes.

Satisfying? _Oh yes_.

 

He shut of the shower and stepped out on a white plush rug. Toweling himself off, he strolled into the bedroom. He has always been proud of his Malibu home; beautifully built to fit his needs, every item serving a purpose. Today he thought the view was exceptionally good. He stood in front of the large window panes and took in the sight of a new dawn, basking in the morning light. After some time he turned around and went to get dressed.

There were currently many things in need of his focus. First and foremost: making his lovely home into an impenetrable fortress.

While it was true that his safety protocols were good, they were not the best. Even if JARVIS would have been with him still, Tony just couldn’t be sure his treasured companion would have supported him in his newfound view of the world. Given that JARVIS has developed his own sense of morality it would not surprise him at all if the AI turned on him. Of course he will always miss JARVIS. Just thinking about it sent sharp jolts of ice cold sadness through his chest, but he had FRIDAY now and while she was nowhere near as self-aware as JARVIS had been, she was in turn that much more subservient to him. In the situation he found himself in, he counted it as a plus. Just as he nurtured JARVIS’s kind and caring personality, he will have to make sure FRIDAY is always working in his favor and his favor alone.

He set course for his workshop. So much to do, so little time. A better alarm system, sturdier gates, bullet proof glass – or rather missile proof glass perhaps, defense mechanisms for his AI to control, experimenting on extremis…

Really, he had his work cut out for him.

 

Best get cracking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rushed a bit with this chapter, so any criticism is very welcome.


	3. The more things change...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony and Loki deal with things. Well, not really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! She updates! 
> 
> Actually, I had this written for about two months and just didn't find the time to proof read it and update. Yes, I know, I'm scum. But well, here you go my lovely munchkins! Enjoy.

He’s standing on top of a pure white skyscraper. The sun is a large fiery ball in the distance, already half swallowed by the hills and buildings. Its light hugs the rooftops with soft golden rays and kisses the clouds so they look pink and fluffy. On the illuminated streets below, there are hundreds of people gathered for the ceremony, happiness and awe dancing in their eyes, their emotion filling the air like glowing lanterns.

There are five people standing on the rooftop with him; Natasha, positively radiant in her wedding dress, her red lips framing a smile and eyes crinkled in delight. She is getting married to the handsome looking Bruce, who for once stands still and confident, eyes glued to his bride to be. There are Steve and Clint, both big softies if you ask him, shedding happy tears like they want to flood the place. The last, but not least there is of course the pastor. All of them are wearing white, as it is only appropriate to celebrate the union in such pure colors.

To Tony, standing a distance away, Bruce and Natasha look like something sacred; holding hands, gazing past each other’s eyes – down, down into the very soul with unconditional devotion. He can feel their love, larger than life and it makes his heart constrict with emotion.

 

His little group of misfits.

 

He’s so proud of them; loves them so much it _hurts_.

 

He knows all their stories start the same: with hate and sorrow and pain, but above all, with _loneliness._ In this moment though all of that is forgotten, erased like writings in the sand. The thought floats like silk around him: _“Hmmm. This is what being in a family must be like.”_

The wedding song is loud in his ears, the symphony of eternal promise. The crowd below is cheering and the air tastes a bit like cotton candy. The bride and the groom exchange golden rings and the ceremony is complete. Steve and Clint join the couple on the ledge. The song is rising to a crescendo. Tony feels a grin stretching across his face. The sun that is framing his four friends seems like it’s cradling them; it’s so beautiful it feels like it’s hard to breathe.

 

And just like that they all tip over the edge of the building.

 

The crowd is ecstatic and the cheers reach new heights. The married couple is smiling, their foreheads touching while they are falling towards the ground in each other’s arms. They can be together forever now. Tony is seeing them off and he is so happy for them. Suddenly he becomes aware of a white rose in his hand and the thorns that are painfully burrowing into his palm.

 

The falling group hits the ground with a strange _smacking_ sound.

 

Tony slowly walks to the edge of the building and looks down at the mass of people surrounding a red stain on the pavement. He gracefully tosses the rose so it can follow them in their descent.

 

He takes a large breath and-

Wakes up gasping.

 

The feeling of the dream lingers in his chest; happy. His cheeks are wet and he can’t stop trembling, gasping for air, but he’s so full of love. It takes a moment to realize he’s sobbing, because he can still feel the warmth of the sun and the playful wind in his hair. Why is he crying? His skin feels too tight and everything is blurry. He thinks he might be letting out sounds, but he can’t be sure – the wedding song is still so very _loud_.

There is one thing that strikes him as odd. In the dream he wore black.

He barely makes it to the bathroom.

 

* * *

 

 

When you are trying to undo someone else’s magic, it takes quite a bit of patience, skill and concentration. Fortunately, Loki has all three in spades. As it is with all things in life, practice makes perfect and he had a lifetime of practice what with all the trouble Thor has gotten him in.

The Chaos God is sitting cross-legged in front of a floor-to-ceiling mirror in his mother’s chamber. The marble floor underneath him feels pleasantly grounding. He is quite sure he has already removed the glamour given how the air around him had sizzled and cracked from the temperature difference. Loki’s legs are sore from sitting in the same position for so long, but he doesn’t dare move.

In retrospect, the decision to close his eyes for better concentration was not one of his best, because now he finds he cannot bring himself to open them. Every time he tries, his heart feels like it’s going to jump out of his chest, the feeling of dread is so intense it leaves him breathless.

It’s pathetic really.

He is disgusted with himself, but there is a small part of him that is relieved that he is a coward so he can live in blissful ignorance for a while longer. It just adds to his frustration and he feels even angrier. He wills his eyelids to obey him and open, but just wishing doesn’t seem to do much at all. He is so agitated it’s almost painful, trying to burst out of his chest.

_Just do it! Do it, you spineless coward!_

He grits his teeth and his brows furrow. It’s a terrible thing to hate oneself, to wish a part of you just didn’t exist. It’s humiliating to have to hide in the shadows like the dirty secret he was made to be and it’s painful, because he knows that if even he cannot love himself then there really is no one in this world who-

His eyes flutter open for a fraction of a second and promptly shut closed again. The room blurred because of the sudden change and he didn’t see anything apart from some blurry colors. His palms are sweaty and his muscles tense. He hates this, all of it. Why can’t he just be normal for once, why must he force himself to acknowledge this cruel reality that has been written for him?

It’s so easy for people like Thor, to carve out a place for themselves in the hearts of others without a single thought, without any effort. Loki has never belonged anywhere, so he envied them, because people like that will never understand how it feels to be alone, to look across the room and not find a single face to genuinely smile at you, a single ear to listen to your voice, not one pair of eyes to acknowledge your existence. Instead you find scorn and ridicule and disgust and it _hurts_. There are no words to describe that kind of pain. It’s something that buries itself somewhere deep inside of you, grips you tight and never really lets go. No matter how much you pretend it doesn’t affect you, no matter how deaf you make yourself to be, you hear every whisper, every mocking laughter and it brings your insecurities blearing to life. There is no safe haven, nowhere to hide where the scorn does not follow. The only thing left to do is to become as unfeeling as ice, cold to the marrow and let the hate fester. It’s a lonely existence, but Loki will take it. Better than the feeling of unworthiness those pigs made him feel before.

He takes a deep breath and tries again.

This time it comes a little easier and he sets his gaze on his lap in the mirror. He can see the blue of his hands in the peripheral and slowly drags his eyes in their direction. He settles on his left hand first and runes his eyes over it.

His first thought is that it looks hideous, but he pushes past that with bullheaded determination. On that faithful, horrid day on Jotunheim it seemed like his hand was a very dark indigo blue, but in the light of this room he is surprised to find it is lighter, more cobalt type blue. His nails are completely black, which is strange to him, but he doesn’t mind that so much. Briefly he wonders about the strange raised lines, but decides he would rather not prolong this torture more than necessary.

His mouth is dry and swallowing only makes his throat ache. Slowly he drags his eyes to his torso and then up until he can see the blue of his neck. Suddenly it’s much harder to go on and he can feel his body going right back into fight or flight mode, all rational thought forgotten. The adrenalin rushing through his bloodstream is making his head woozy and he clenches his teeth to keep them from chattering.

The constant stream of _no no no_ that was easier to tune out before is now much too loud to ignore. His eyes snap tightly shut again without his permission.

Amidst his laborious breathing and pounding of his heart a thought swims from the depths of his skull: _coward._

He can’t bring himself to be angry though. He is simply tired now. He wants to pull the glamour back on and fall into his bed, sleep for days and forget about this whole thing. Unfortunately, he knows that if he moves even just a hair away from this mirror he will never be back again, forever running from the truth and that is even more unforgivable.

So he sits still as a statue and forces his mind into a semblance of order so he can look again and again _and again_ until he has been force-fed this ugly reality that plagues him.

Strangely enough, it is the thought of inescapability that makes his body and mind surrender. He feels as though his body just entered a bubble, light and unburdened and just like that, he levels his head up and his eyes snap open to stare at the new reality.

 

Red reality stares back.

 

* * *

 

       

In the workshop, Tony is a mess of jerky movements and aggressive calculations. The new suit is almost complete and FRIDAY is relaying information for the final stages while the music blares deafeningly loud.

Since he woke up, the emotional swirling mass of love, sadness, disappointment and betrayal has been transforming into pure white hot rage. It feels like there’s lava under his skin and he’s boiling alive. It’s bubbling and overflowing, like blood gushing from an unhealed wound and he doesn’t know how to stop it, doesn’t know what to do with so much heat. He wants to hurt like he has been hurt, wants to punch, destroy, maim and make someone else feel this uncontainable anger that burns his stomach and despair that freezes him solid.

The music stops and his head whips around with stunning speed. 

“The suit is complete and ready for testing.”

“Oh goody. You know, I _was_ getting kinda antsy. Now, of course, as any respectable scientist I have to test my creation, don’t you think? I need to find me some volunteers. Any bad guys who want their asses kicked raise your hands please!”

He turns his head left and right as if looking for his audience and raises his hands halfway as if saying “ _come now, don’t be shy!”._

“Come on, no one? No burglars, no murderers or terrorists that want a kick to the nuts? And God, have I ever told you I hate terrorists? You weren’t born yet when daddy was taken for some fun time over in Afghan, but boy let me tell you, they’re not laughing _now_.”

He makes his way to the suit on the other side of the room and looks for any mistakes or imperfections. He’s positive he will find none. FRIDAY is relatively new, but she is still his creation.

“You know what, all that reminiscing made me crave for some action. FRIDAY, find me some terrorists.”   

It’s a testimony to the AI’s capabilities when she actually does find them only after a few seconds.

“One such fraction is currently situated in Iraq. I’m uploading the information now.”

He squeezes the words through a savage grin: “perfect”.

“Boss?”

“Prepare the suit for me love. We’re going on an _adventure_.”

“Yes, Boss.”

After that there was no more conversation. Cleanly and efficiently the suit was reassembled around him and he took off like a bullet. The moment he was in the air, the camouflage sequence turned on and he disappeared into the clouds.

He pushed the suit to its limits, flying faster, until all the colors blurred and the only way to tell whether he was going the right way, was by the coordinates displayed on his screen. His jaw hurt from clenching it so tight and he welcomed the physical pain that momentarily distracted him from the inferno that was slowly scratching up his throat. There was a scream working itself up from the depths of his chest and he ground his teeth together in order to keep it in.

The latest version of the suit was not really made for combat, but operated more under the assumption that it would be used in infiltration or at best, a sneak attack. Tony didn’t give a rats ass. He will punch and scratch through this one if he has to.

The more he thinks, the worse it gets. Bruce is incognito, left them like they were just sacks of shit he could no longer tolerate. The memory of Clint joining forces with Rogers, Natasha picking the other side halfway through, fucking Captain America’s back when he left him there, broken, while his _mother’s_ _murderer_ walked away alongside him. All the slights and betrayals carved themselves a little deeper into his soul.

He traced the paths of his decline back to when he first met the Avengers. He disliked them the second his eyes landed on his “team”, but see, these guys have a way to squirm and wriggle and prod until suddenly you realize they have worked themselves smack in the center of your mushy bits and then, when you’re wholly invested in them, in this _friendship_ thing, what do they do? Oh yeah, brake you up and wear you down until you are nothing but a shell of a man.

It was all just fine until he started listening to them, trying to accommodate them, make them accept him. Sure it started small, with an occasional remark like: “I think you should drink less Tony, it can’t be healthy for you.” or “you know, if you could tell us what you feel without sarcastic remarks, this conversation thing would go over much better you know.”

The problems started when he actually did start doing what they asked of him. Drank less, told them what he thought and bam! Almost like an abusive relationship, the moment he gave them an inch it was suddenly: “what the hell Tony, we need solutions not more complications!” and “You and Pepper broke up? Oh Tony, what did you do _now_?”

It would be funny, if he wasn’t so pissed off.

The coordinates show he is getting close now. Just a few more miles. He pictures all their faces in stunning clarity and dregs up all their remarks and he’s just about ready to explode when he lands smack dab in the middle of the terrorist camp.

After that, Tony’s world is reduced to blurred colors and cut off screams. All he is aware of is the heat burning inside him. His repulsors die down but there are still people shooting at him. No matter. He looks around and grabs a metal pipe like object and flings it like a javelin to the head of the nearest one. Three more to go. His leg repulsors are still working and he shoots up and forward, crushing two who were standing next to each other. And the winner is…

The last guy has the sensibility to drop his gun and run, but unfortunately for him, Tony is not in a forgiving mood. His repulsor on the left hand flickers back to life and without thinking, he shoots at the guy’s legs. Then he runs and grabs the pipe he threw before and guns it after the terrorist, now half lying on his side, unable to move with burned and bleeding legs. The man tries crawling away, but Tony is having none of it. The man’s pleading and screaming barely penetrates the red fog in Tony’s head and for a second he wonders if he should stop. Then he lifts the pipe above his head and swings. Once, twice, thrice and he keeps swinging until the screams stop, until the gasps of pain aren’t there anymore, until he’s panting with effort, unable to continue. Then he slowly lets go of the pipe and looks around.

 

He is greeted by a sea of red.  

     

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About the dream thing... It's a wedding, but also a funeral. Get it? Author is so smart. Also, I have no idea how FRIDAY would have found those terrorists, but just pretend she has super hacking app or something. IDK man. I'm not good at maths or computers or computer engineering. 
> 
> I would love to hear your thoughts on this chapter!


	4. The road less traveled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki gets a power-up and becomes a little shit. Tony is floating in the sea of wrong since forever.

 

His mind was blank.

What does one think when faced with a reflection of themselves who are arguably not really them? Or perhaps he was himself for the first time in his life.

The red eyes - he doesn’t seem to be able to look away from them.

There are raised lines on his face as well, framing his forehead like a crown and it’s almost hilariously appropriate. Nothing less from the son of two kings.

He feels strange, almost like the thing in the mirror is not him at all, but some stranger who looks like he could be his cousin by bone structure alone. He doesn’t like it. That is not him. He doesn’t feel like Loki.

_‘Well. At least my skin isn’t green. It would clash horribly with the red.’_

The thought makes him snort unattractively and in the next second he’s giggling – it’s too much. The laughter gains volume until he’s clutching his stomach. He’s laughing at the stupid thought, at the ridiculous situation, at himself.

He’s laughing.

Or howling.

He can’t tell anymore anyway.

His movements are erratic and vicious when he smashes the nearby chair, then the table and the cabinet in the corner. The crystal figurines are thrown across the room where they break apart with a satisfying crash. He rips apart the curtains with his sharp fingernails _(claws, claws, they’re claws now)_ and tears at them until they are nothing but scraps.

_‘That’s not me, not me,notme. It can’t be me. I hate it. Ihateit! I don’t want that to be me!’_

He goes through the room like a natural disaster until he ends up tiredly standing in the middle of the destruction and the only thing left untouched is the large mirror that now reflects his rage.

The moment he sees himself – snarling, vicious eyes narrowed into slits, heaving chest – is the moment something finally connects. The image finally portrayed just right.

_‘oh,’_ he thinks. _‘Perhaps it is me after all.’_

He sees it now. There is a monster hiding behind the cultural mask of royalty. He has known that already, but now he has a face to go with that as well. A grotesque sort of pleasure mixes with rage and he finds himself stepping closer to the mirror. Perhaps this monster isn’t him, not really, not entirely, but it is still a part of him. A part of him that is ugly and vengeful and petty and mean and bloodthirsty.

Loki can deal with that. (Maybe.)

 

.

 

In the next few days he goes through the library, learning of cultures long gone and creatures so old they precede written thought. He discovers little that surprises him and none quite as the that first book about Norns, but it’s better than nothing. He has bits of knowledge squirreled away in his head and it makes him feel at least a bit better. Sporadically he returns to his kingly duties and listens to the wailing of elderly councilors. It grates on his nerves. They grate on his nerves. He doesn’t understand how he ever thought he would have liked to lead Asgard since he has such low tolerance for stupidity.

At night he stares at the mirror and watches the monster (or is it the monster that is watching him?).

He should sleep. Probably.

Instead he traces lines and plans and plots (and only occasionally hyperventilates).

His days pass in a fog with occasional bust of color and he feels like he’s stagnating. He won’t let himself of course, but Asgard is the very definition of stagnation and Loki figures to move forward is to move away. His home is not his home anymore and he wonders if he will ever have one again.

He dedicates three afternoons to painting runes on a satchel that will, when finished, enable him unlimited storage space. Runes are not a favored topic of study, even among the scholars, but Loki has learned them anyway. It is a complicated practice that requires a steady hand and an abundance of patience. It’s time consuming, but he doesn’t mind. He traces the matrices with a reverence, carefully painting the symbols so none smear.

_“Everything must have a balance. The circular matrix is better than linear.”_ He hears his mother say when he’s painstakingly drawing precise lines and imbuing them with his magic. His hand stops for a moment but he doesn’t dare turn around. There is no-one behind him.

He might be unhinged, but he’s not that far gone.

The next day he visits the vault. There are marvels of the universe hidden away in this room. Marvels that don’t see the light of day, which is a shame really. They were created with a purpose after all. Created to be of use, not to sit and gather dust particles. He won’t take anything he doesn’t need and he will have to replace the ones he does with replicas.

The casket of Ancient Winters is already in his possession.

There is the glinting Twilight Sword and The Warlock's Eye. Both magnificent in their own right. The Eternal Flame of Surtur is crackling in the far back. Loki walks past all of them. For a moment he contemplates the Infinity Gauntlet, but no. He came for three things only.

The Orb of Agamotto is the first, The Tablet of Life and Time the second. The third will be harder to obtain since it’s in Heimdall’s hands, but Loki is nothing if not cunning and the Tesseract will soon be his to command. For now, he is satisfied with the two he could get his hands on.

He carefully deposits them in the pre-prepared transportation device and stores them both in his fully functioning satchel. He watches as they disappear in the never-ending darkness and enjoys the satisfaction it brings. Then he reaches inside again and summons two pieces of plain rock he stored there previously. He deposits them on the pedestals and with his magic vibrating at his fingertips he gets to work.

The shapes of inanimate objects are easier to reshape than living beings, but this has to be meticulously done. Any imperfection will be noticed. Of course it will be noticed anyway after the Allfather awakens, but by then Loki will be far away and out of reach.

Satisfied with the end result, he turns to exit the chamber, when he almost collides with a concerned looking guard.

“Ah… Allfather?”

Loki did not know his heart could create such a fast staccato beat.

_‘How did I not hear him? How did I not notice? What now, what now, what do I do? I’m not ready, not yet. I can’t kill the guard, everyone will notice, I will be found out, I can’t afford it, not now, not again, all this planning, gone, gone, gonegonegone.’_

His magic is lashing out, agitated and angry (afraid) and suddenly tendrils of almost invisible green are moving towards the guard, sneaking into the pores and under his skin like a fast acting poison, into the meat, slithering up the tendons and skeletal muscles, finds its way towards the neck, the Galea Aponeurotica and from there into the nervous system, spinal nerve, he invades the brain stem, the cerebellum, the diencephalon and finally the cerebrum.

The guard’s eyes become unfocused and Loki takes the chance.

“Everything is just fine.” He whispers, eyes wide and wet.

 

The man smiles serenely.

“Fine. Everything is fine,” he repeats almost drunkenly.

“Yes. Return to your post.”

“Fine. Everything is fine.” He turns and walks away.

Loki doesn’t move for quite some time. 

 

.

 

“Is the King allright?”

“Everything is fine.”

“He’s been in there for a while.”

“Yes. Ah, It’s fine.”

“Did he say anything?”

“Fine. It’s fine.”

“Are you…are you mocking me?”

“Hu-? What? No, no. Ah, he said to return to my post. He said everything’s just fine.”

“… have you slept lately?”

“I do feel a bit worn.”

“Ay, don’t we all.”

 

.

 

By the time he feels calm enough to even contemplate what happened, Loki has cleared out half of his room and stored all the contents into his pocked dimension inside his satchel and rearranged them accordingly.

He feels like he stepped over a cliff.

Such a thing as magic manipulation is not news to him, no. He has done it before. Little suggestions here and there, a nudge in the right direction - but never like this. Never so blatantly. His little suggestions were always just that – suggestions. Loki, as the caster, couldn’t have forced anyone to do something they really didn’t want to do. His nudges could have been completely ignored before. That is why he has always used it sparingly; if he wanted it to work, it had to be cast at the right time, at the right place, when emotions ran high and the other party had less initiative to listen to their common sense. And even then it could have been brushed aside.

What happened in the vault, well, it … changes things. 

 

.

 

“Hello Volstagg.”

“Wha-! Loki! You wreched snake!”

 

_(Laughing red eyes and wrong, something is-)_

 

“I would like to ask you something Volstag.”

“Of course.”

“If it came between Allfather and Thor, who would you follow?”

“... I would … I’m not sure I understand.”

“I think the question is simple.”

“I would follow whoever sits on the throne of Asgard.”

“Tell me the truth.”

“The truth.”

“Yes.”

“I would follow Thor.”

“I see. Forget this conversation.”

“Forget.”

“Yes.”

 

.

 

“My king?”

“Ah Kelda is it? The goddess of ice, lashing rain and churning cloud.”

“You flatter me my king.”

“Nonsense. You are a favored daughter of Asgard, I could treat you with no less respect than you deserve.”

“Ah, you have my thanks Allfather. Forgive my bluntness, but why have you called me here?”

“Yes, you see, there is something I need.”

“As long as it is in my power, I will gladly give you anything you desire my king. What is it that you need?”

“A part of your soul.”

“… I … beg your pardon?”

“I am crafting a dagger you see and I need a pure substance. Nothing is quite as pure as a soul don’t you think? I would only take a small piece of course.”

“I … but I won’t … be able to…”

“You will not be able to enter Valhalla, that’s true. It is quite a sacrifice.”

 

_(A flash of green. Silence. A smile.)_

 

“Whatever you wish my king.”

“Excellent. Don’t worry, you won’t even know it’s gone.”

“Whatever you think is best my king.” 

 

.

 

“Heimdall.”

“My king.”

“I need the Tesseract.”

“The Tesseract.”

“Yes.” 

 

.

 

The next day Asgard is in uproar.

The King was found unconscious on his bedroom floor and the royal courters tarnished. No one saw intruders of any kind, but suddenly Heimdall is missing the Tesseract and the vault has been ransacked.

The people are panicking and no one seems to have an explanation.

An invisible enemy. Heimdall shivers at the thought.

 

_(No matter what he does, he simply can’t get rid of the feeling of someone laughing at him.)_

 

They can only wait for their king to awaken.

 

* * *

 

 

Tony feels like one of his creations. Robotic.

He stands under the shower spray in a bone deep apathy. Killing those men, what was he thinking? He expects authorities on his doorstep any day now. He can play it off. Probably. Maybe.

He needs to check if there was any monitoring done for that group, get his story straight, do something, but he is just... He can’t be bothered to do squat right now.

So he doesn’t.

He shuts off the shower and crawls into his bed like some kind of wraith George Romero would be proud of. He’s asleep before his head hits the pillow.

_(He has always been good at running away from his problems.)_

 

_._

 

The next few days are spent in his workshop, functioning on zero sleep and a meagre 20% food and 130% coffee intake. It’s not healthy, but who is there to tell him otherwise. Tony is a free spirit.

He’s working on projects and scrapes them a day later and then he starts on a new one that is just as bad and he has no idea where to go from here. Currently, he is pulling up yet another blank piece of paper and starts sketching a blueprint for a vehicle that can land on Jupiter. Why? Tony has no idea. He will probably bin it tomorrow anyway.

At the back of his head he’s wondering why in the world he’s using pen and paper like some kind of medieval hobo. Has he not invented brilliant technology for the exact purpose of replacing these things? Apparently not.

He has to admit though, it does feel like he’s more productive than he actually is. So maybe that’s why? Hmm. It’s like his own mind is trying to trick itself. Which is as baffling as it is (sort of) expected. It’s Tony after all.

He calculates the distance and the power of the thrusters. If he puts some serious power in the vehicle, it should reach the planet in approximately eight months (five less than NASA, take that!). Jupiter is very heavy-gravity so it will need to be equipped properly. A sonic disrupter unit perhaps? He’ll have to work on that.

He loses two more hours to sloppy calculations and half-baked ideas, before admitting this is absolutely pointless. What the hell is he even doing?

His mind, the absolute menace that it is, informs him that is has been days since he had a conversation with an actual living, breathing person. It makes him irrationally angry that he even notices. In the good old days people had to drag him out of here kicking and screaming. Tony’s ego despairs in a deserted corner of his mind when he tentatively admits he kind of, maybe misses that.

Wasn’t this supposed to be fun? Inventing used to be fun. He could have spent days here and not even notice, while his mind churned up ideas. Now it’s like someone pressed a pause button. Tony can feel every second.

With a resigned sigh he throws down the chewed up pen and sets to take a shower.

The afternoon sun hits him through the large window panes the moment he clambers up the stairs and he recoils like a hissy feline. Or a recluse that hasn’t left his basement in three days. Whichever. He shields his face with his forearm and feels like Dracula slinking through the hallways. It’s as entertaining as it is depressing.

In the bathroom he chalks his grimy clothes into the hamper that is almost full and makes a mental note to call the cleaning staff sometimes in the near future.

He flows through the motions – lather, rinse, repeat.

Tony realizes he’s not productive. He knows he’s not focused. Hell, he doesn’t know what he is. His mind is everywhere at once and nowhere at all at the same time.

Before long, he’s rubbing himself dry with a surprisingly fluffy towel and feels just a little more human.

He walks to the sink, clutches the sides of the Vitreous China and takes a good look at himself for the first time in a long while.

Tony hates to admit it, but…well, he doesn’t look good.

There are blue bags under his eyes, which looks as bad as it sounds, and there are stress lines and he- He looks old.

Old and wrung out.

God, this is _not_ what he wanted from his life.

He bares his teeth to his reflection.

“Real slick there, buddy. What was that about a hotshot supervillain in the making?” He snorts. “Made a better bad guy when you were trying to be a hero. Try being a villain and you end up as a washed up joke.” His fingers turn white, gripping the basin.

“Talking to oneself is a sign of insanity in people, Boss.” Informs his AI and makes him start so badly he almost head-butts the mirror. His right hand flies to his chest and after he wheezes out the adrenaline spike, he glares at the ceiling.

“Yeah, thanks.”

“No problem, Boss.”

Snarky robots giving him jump scares. He rubs a hand over his face, somehow hoping a solution will drop into his naked lap and dance his life back on track. When after a minute of waiting nothing happens, he is as disappointed as he is resigned.

Tentatively he tries to explain his dilemma to the only near sentient being in his home: “I just … I don’t know … what to do.”

He doesn’t get a response. Typical.

“I thought I had it all figured out you know? Can’t be a hero, guess I’ll try my hand in the Big Bad of the world. But the thing is, I just can’t seem to … like, I have ideas sure, but just- “

He lets out a frustrated groan, trying to get his thoughts to rearrange themselves properly. He settles with: “It’s not even about that you know? It’s about getting back at those assholes who left me in the trash like a used up condom. Also, what is up with the grandpa phone? So, what, I became a clingy one night stand when I wasn’t looking? Oh hey, yeah listen, if you ever need us we’re here for you man.” He mocks. “Yeah. Meanwhile we’re just going to chill with my bestest buddy who also moonlights as an evil raccoon.”

Now that he’s talking, it’s like someone opened the floodgates and the words are just spilling out of his mouth.

"And also, fuck that guy!” He’s not even really sure who he means at this point. This rant has been a long time coming, he thinks. It doesn’t even really matter what he’s yelling to high heavens the _point is_ -

“They chose a fucking murderer over me!” And really, this is what it all boils down to at the end.

“I gave them everything they could have ever needed or wanted! And they go and fucking canoodle with a sociopath who will kill them in their sleep given half the chance!”

He is aware that he’s breathing like he just ran a marathon and flailing his hands like a headless chicken, but hell, he needs this and it’s not like anyone is here to see or judge him.

“Oh, so when I give them nice stuff everything is A Okay, but when _I_ need something from them?! Oh no, no, they would rather just go with dear ol’ chap from a war nobody even remembers anymore, oh and did we mention that he’s also a brainwashed lab rat that probably cuts off people’s faces and wears them as his own? No? Well it’s all good, he’s a decent fella that one. Yeah. Just give him a fucking medal while you’re at it, why don’t you.”

He stalks out of the bathroom like a caged lion, stomps all the way back to his man cave and almost throws himself into the chair he vacated.

“This is bullshit.”

He crumples the Jupiter blueprints and flings them across the room. Dum-E makes a confused whiny sound and Tony instantly feels like a Bad Parent™.

As abruptly as it came, the anger drains out of him and he slumps on the table, head nestled in his arms.

Quietly, so not even his AI’s sound system would pick it up, he breaths into the steel: “after all this time you would think I was worth more to these people.”

Tony has problems. Tony knows he has problems. He’s always too much or too little. He’s too clingy or too apathetic. He’s a drunk and completely irresponsible and he’s not good with people unless they are a faceless crowd and he makes mistakes like whoa. Tony knows that more than anyone, but God dammit he fucking tries, ok? He tries to be better, tries to do better, but it’s just never enough. Not for his father, not for his friends, not for Pepper and apparently not enough for a group of people who are arguably just as fucked up as him.

“Have you decided on your next course of action yet Boss?” questions his trusty little minion. At least FRIDAY has her priorities straight. Well, maybe. She was made by him after all.

“No.” He croaks.

His course of action is to wallow in misery until some, unidentified point in the future.

“Would you like to eliminate them, Boss?”

Huh. His little girl became a hit man behind his back. Kids - you turn away for one second and suddenly they are touching the stove. Wouldn’t want his baby girl to turn out like her big brothers. Or one of them at least.

“No.” And he doesn’t. Not really. He just-

“What do you want then, Boss?”

Isn’t that just a million-dollar question. He wants everything to go back to how it was before this clusterfuck, but that’s impossible because Tony won’t ever forget (or forgive for that matter; Tony hates traitors more than anyone else).

“I want … them to feel the same way I did. I want them to regret ever doing this to me. I want them crawling on their knees, begging for forgiveness I won’t ever grant. I want them to look and…”

He contemplates for a bit. The silence is suffocating, but it comes with a burst of clarity.

“I want them to regret not appreciating a good thing when they had it.”

The only problem is, Tony is not a ‘good thing’ and it itches something fierce. It also makes him want to simultaneously scream and cry which is just … no. Just no.

“Well Boss, perhaps the first step in the right direction would be buying a cat?”

Okay…What? He cranes his neck to squint dubiously at one of the cameras. Is his little girl reading some sort of self-help pamphlets or something?

He is familiar with animal therapy of course, what with Pepper trying to hoist a dog on him once in order to ‘reduce the sense of isolation and anxiety that comes with PTSD cases’ or whatever. If Tony isn’t good with fully functioning human adults, what made her think he’s going to be good with animals? It was an awkward experience for all participants.

“Sorry, what? Also, why?”

“I was informed that all the good villains have them. You should give it a shot, Boss.”

A vision of himself in a throne-like chair, with an ugly cat on his lap and his lips pursed like he swallowed a lemon pops into his head.

Tony barks out a laugh before he can even contemplate any further responses to that.

“I would look rather dashing I think. Is this your way of steering me into the direction of a crazy cat lady?”

“You may be crazy and a horrible recluse, but you are no lady, Boss.” For a program, she sounds entirely too smug.

“Psht, what would you know about ladies? For all you know I could be the ladiest lady that has ever ladied around.”

“Half of those words are not actually legitimate words, Boss.”

He feigns offense.

“Hey! This is my house. I can invent all the words I want.”

“Of course, Boss.”

“Your disrespect for authority figures is disheartening to witness. This is not how I raised you.”

“May I suggest putting on some pants first, if you are going for the parental angle?”

So sassy. Tony chokes on a laugh and preforms a quick salute before scampering upstairs.

His day is looking up.

“Must you frolic around your house naked, Stark?”

 

He … might have spoken a smidge too soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, this has taken a time. I flundered a bit there, because, I mean, where does one go from flying suits of armor and artificial intelligence? Magic is easy. Science? Ah, not so much. But I finally know what to do with Tony so yay! 
> 
> By the way did anyone know about Kelda? In the comics Loki crafted a sword(?) from her soul and wiped her memory. When the poor girl died she was unable to go to Valhalla. Like...what the shit Loki? ;o
> 
> Marvel comics can be deranged, man.

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts?


End file.
